Visitation

The artists always tell

it thus:

 

How one of them stood

towering in praise

the other, a pale aura, always

with her eyes gentled down.

 

She leans close, whispering

a few broken words

beneath the slanted eyes of men.

 

It is the ravished light

that tells you everything-

 

how, already swathed under those

bolts of mauve and cobalt

all action pulses

fistful of cells, writhing heart

priest and prophet signal

from eternal souls

how

the word is spoken

a thousand times from

unformed tongue

is heard with pealing joy

from untried ear

containing all that would later

attempt to be said

when each would burst

that membrane of simple love,

head-first into a world

 

deaf, blind, and incredulous.

 

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